Thanks for This One, Mr Gemcity
by thebondgirl
Summary: "McGee, if I don't die here in my underwear in the next fifteen minutes, I reserve the right to pay you back for this, in whatever way I see fit." Random interlude of Tony-whumping, set somewhere late season 4-ish. Please see A/N.


**A/N**: Welcome to my first "bribe fic", pulled out of 'on hold' status, finished, and polished up for your viewing. For those not reading my other in-progress fic "Knock on Wood", you'll have no idea what this is for, so allow me to briefly explain: thanks to school work, I haven't updated that story since the 2nd of July… and this one-shot is a shameless attempt to bribe those I've kept waiting with a free round of Tony-whumpage, complete with a dose of movie-referencing, and humour (FYI: references will be better understood if you've watched the movie "Lethal Weapon 2").

For those who _are_ reading "Knock on Wood", and are ready to clobber me for posting something other than Chapter 2 after all this time… would you take this one as a peace offering for the moment? (You can't see it, but I say this with an extremely sheepish and hopeful expression on my face.) I swear on my life, as you're reading this I'm working busily on finishing Chapter 2!

Either way, hope you all enjoy this one – let me know what ya think!

(Oh, and for anyone who's a little fuzzy on the details of McGee's novel-writing, search "Timothy McGee" on Wikipedia – I remember there being a pretty good profile of him and his hobbies on there.)

* * *

**Thanks for This One, Mr. Gemcity**

* * *

**Description:** "McGee, if I don't die here in my underwear in the next fifteen minutes, I reserve the right to pay you back for this, in whatever way I see fit."

* * *

Four hours, fifty-nine minutes, forty-seven seconds.

That was how long he had left to live. And by four hours, fifty-nine minutes, forty-six seconds he'd decided that if by some wildly unlikely miracle he was still alive by the end of that countdown, he was going to shoot one Thom E. Gemcity, otherwise known as Special Agent Timothy McClueless, the latest inductee into the Authors Who've Incited Murder Sprees hall of fame.

Or, maybe not shoot… that would be too simple, and he wasn't crazy about the attempted-murder charge… maybe crazy-glue him to his keyboard again? No, too painless, and too easy to get out of. Trap him in an elevator with Ziva and a paperclip? Everyone knew what that woman could do with a paperclip…

Four hours, fifty-nine minutes, forty seconds.

Tony sighed as he stared at the timer, then shivered bodily, then groaned as the giant ache that was his body protested even that slight movement. His head spun with the last vestiges of the unknown drug he'd been injected with, and he swayed, dangerously close to falling over before a spike of fear straightened him immediately where he stood. Casting another glance down at the bathroom scale he was standing on did nothing to calm that fear as he watched the timer that was connected to and sitting on top of it continue its countdown. Each second gone was one less that the team had to find him before he'd be blown apart inside this crummy, flower wall-paper-covered bathroom.

Should he be worried that he was more put off by the thought of dying staring at row upon row of god-awful yellow daisies than the thought of dying in and of itself?

…thirty-four…

…thirty-three…

…thirty-two…

Sighing again, Tony looked out the window across from him instead (watching his life tick away really wasn't helping his morale) and thought again of ways to torment McGee.

This cheered him up.

With this distraction, he could almost keep down his churning anger and incredulousness at the situation he now found himself in. Not only had yet another psychopath decided to mirror people and events from one of McGee's murder mystery novels, but this latest crazy's motive was the fact that McGee was having trouble finishing his newest book. And so what does psycho super-fan do? After hacking McGee's computer (figures, Probie would choose _now _to start using his computer to write), the little bastard starts recreating the bombing murders from the book in the real world.

And then, because he is just _that_ passionate about helping Mr. Gemcity along in his writing, he stages a new and as of yet unwritten plot twist to get things moving again: the drugging, kidnapping and beating of the real life version of Agent Tommy, followed by leaving him standing on a scale rigged to explosives planted on the ground in front of it, which would go off either when the timer hit zero or when Tommy got too tired and shifted his weight just enough away from the center of the scale to trigger the pressure switch detonator.

In short, Tony DiNozzo was four hours, fifty-nine minutes, nineteen seconds away from being reduced to bits of high-velocity human shrapnel because McSupergeek got writer's block, and somehow failed miserably at equipping his stupid laptop with a decent set of firewalls.

Of course, there was still a small chance he might not die – the ski mask-wearing psycho super-fan was very adamant when he explained it to Tony: with the way this was set up, real life McGregor and his team would have five hours to find him after the device was armed, and the "scene" was created in such a way as to allow for the possibility of a daring last-minute bomb diffusing and rescue. It would be thrillingly dramatic. If this failed, then at least it would end in them witnessing the tragic demise of Tommy, which could be used to motivate McGregor and Co. to solve the case to seek revenge. By the sounds of it, this was set to be a master work of fiction.

Except that this was real. And as… uh… _touched_ as he was at the idea of his tragic death motivating "McGregor" to charge ahead and get the damn book finished, he really, _really_ didn't want to get blown up today. Or tomorrow. Actually, never, if he was allowed to have any say in this.

He sniffed compulsively at feeling blood still trickling from his nose down his chin to stain his T-shirt, and remembered with a groan that that kick to the face earlier had probably broken his nose, so sniffing was ill-advised. So was crossing his arms to hug himself against the cold of the long-abandoned house, given that his torso, like each of his legs, felt like a giant bruise, with the addition of a smattering of cracked ribs.

Why did psycho super-fan have to grab him from his bed in the middle of the night? It would really friggin' help his mood if he wasn't freezing his ass off on top of it all because he was dressed only in a T-shirt and boxers, with the scale's cold metal under his bare feet and in an unheated house in early November. Damnit, was he ever cold…

…Screw it. He hugged himself and rubbed gingerly at his arms in an effort to ease his shivering, gritting his teeth against all associated pains.

At least there was the comfort that they were already looking for him – Tony thanked whatever higher power there was that McGee had written it into the novel's plot that this particular explosion-happy serial killer always phoned McGregor to taunt him with the sharing of the address of his next intended victim just before taking them. By now, the team had long since been to his apartment. There, they would have found evidence of the struggle and the handful of written clues spray-painted on his wall that could lead them to him, if they deciphered them in time. Tony chose not to dwell on the fact that they hadn't gotten to any of the previous three Marine victims in time to do anything but call the fire department, and scrape what was left of them into Tupperware containers for Ducky's consideration.

By the glimpse he'd gotten of psycho super-fan's wristwatch just as he was forcing Tony to his feet and up onto the scale, it'd already been three hours since his abduction. By the timer, he now had… four hours, fifty-seven minutes, twenty-three seconds left. Allowing for the time it would take to diffuse the bomb, this meant they'd started with roughly a seven hour window to find him. That should be more than enough… right?

Tony stared out the window at condemned-looking industrial building across the lot from him, and decided not to think about it.

* * *

The remaining hours of Tony's life dragged by agonizingly slowly.

For the first hour, he'd tried passing the time with replaying his favourite Magnum P.I episodes in his head from memory, but between the scant few hours of sleep he'd gotten the night before and the drugs and ass-kicking he'd gotten since, the finer details kept blurring into confused heaps.

For the second hour, he'd taken to reciting quotable quotes from every movie he could think of, until his shivering and teeth chattering became too much for him to form words around without biting his tongue. Plus his lips and cheeks had gone numb, so talking was more effort than it was worth.

The third hour he'd started imagining conversations and pranks in the bullpen, but had to stop by the time that hour was up after his daydreams became so vivid in his mind's eye that he almost forgot exactly why he was standing there. At this point, he locked his knees in a desperate bid to keep now numb legs from buckling.

The fourth hour was spent in a haze of jumbled thoughts and half-remembered jokes, and the vaguely worried, but fleeting realization that he was shivering less and less now. His eyes kept slipping shut, his body starting to lean to the side, only for him to snap himself back to stand as straight as he could, though he was hunched and barely upright on legs that shook, and he'd mostly forgotten why it was he needed to stay awake and standing at all. He kept his arms wrapped loosely around himself more for balance than anything; at least the pain wasn't so bad any more. The one apparent benefit of being half naked in temperatures bellow zero: natural and needle-free local anesthetic.

When he noticed blurred numbers on the timer by his feet showing forty-two minutes, five seconds, the memory of his situation floated back to the forefront for a moment of quietly renewed, if somewhat cold-muffled fear…

…then distant sounds reached him. He held his breath as he listened to what he swore sounded like pounding feet and yelling voices, and the closer they got to him, the more familiar they became. He was almost convinced that he wasn't imagining them when suddenly there was a bang, and the door to his right flung open and crashed against the bathroom wall. It was a good thing he was too lethargic to get startled, and too stiff and numb to really move, otherwise that right there would have made him jump off of his rather sensitive perch.

"_Oh God_. Boss! Ziva! I found him! We're in the bathroom, end of the hall! Tony? Can you hear me?" The kid sounded pretty scared. Tony offered what was supposed to be a convincingly flippant and unworried-sounding response.

"I'm c-cold McGee… n-not deaf." Okay, so that fell a little short. His voice was hoarse from hours of cold and little use, and was shaking as much as the rest of him.

When two other sets of pounding feet came running into the bathroom then, Tony mustered the will to open eyes he didn't remember closing and lift and turn his head, blinking hard to try to bring his approaching teammates into sharper focus. It didn't quite work, though he could still pretty well make out the looks on their faces. He must've really looked rough, for them to be looking at him like that, like they needed to kill the guy who did it, like they were an inch from losing it because he was here and hurt and they might be too late already. Of course, he'd definitely die in a second and take them with him if he didn't speak up here…

"Don't touch me!" he rasped desperately through chattering teeth, and Ziva hastily retracted her reaching hand while Gibbs paused just as he was about to drape his jacket around Tony's trembling shoulders, both of them looking confused. "No t-trip wires Boss… pressure switch… add weight, or sh-shift mine…"

He had to stop when he accidentally bit his tongue, but he saw that they understood, and sagged a little in relief.

"Ziva, go and tell the bomb squad to get their asses up here. McGee, get dispatch to send an ambulance and instruct the medics to wait on standby outside until they get the all clear. After that, head to the trunk of the car and bring the portable space heater in here."

As the other two sprinted off to do as they were told, Gibbs looked back to Tony, gaze searching.

"How bad?" he asked bluntly. His eyes grew harder as they skimmed over what damage he could see. Tony failed miserably at a blithe smirk.

"B-bruised like a peach Boss… kinda l-like when I sparred with you on one of y-your anni-anniversaries."

Unfortunately the Marine seemed to zero in on the careful way Tony had his arms folded around him and on how Tony's legs could barely keep him vertical. So quickly Tony was almost sure he imagined it, Gibbs' face creased in a rare outward display of concern and fear, then his game face took over again, wiping it bare of anything outside of steely determination, his mouth set in a grim line.

"This'll be over soon, DiNozzo."

Tony almost laughed out loud – he blamed the slight hysteria on the cold – because yep, one way or another it would be; the numbers on that timer were starting to get pretty low, and they weren't going anywhere else but down.

Thankfully McGee was as quick with retrieving the heater as Ziva was in retrieving the bomb squad, so while the boys set up standing work lamps and draped blast-absorbent sheets over the window and in the doorway he was allowed to _finally_ thaw out a little; the counter beside him was at the ideal height to hold the heater so that it blew wonderfully hot air over him at elbow level (much appreciated, even if he went back to being more aware of his aches and pains). By the time the squad's leader relayed the fact that he couldn't see a way to diffuse the device without triggering several of its back-up circuits, he was aware enough and warm enough to be able to think straight and speak, though still hoarse, and still shivering.

"I saw this in a movie once."

A collective sigh traveled from one of his team members to the next, cutting through the anxious tension, and earning him looks that were as amused as they were exasperated.

"Dare we ask?" Gibbs said in a tone that bellied the renewed fear in his expression. Gibbs was afraid... of course he was afraid - they were running out of time: only twenty minutes, thirty-two seconds left on the timer, and they'd gotten _nowhere_.

Tony pretended he hadn't noticed and answered with a wavering grin and a thin laugh.

"'Lethal Weapon 2' – this is pretty much just like the scene where Riggs finds Murtaugh stuck on his own toilet in his bathroom at home after the South Africans they were investigating planted a bomb behind the toilet that would blow if he stood up. Only difference I can see is that I'm standing instead of sitting –"

"And are thankfully clothed, if only just," Ziva intoned with a slight smirk.

"–so," he said, pointedly ignoring her and talking to the bomb squad, "why don't you try using the bit of liquid nitrogen in your arsenal to freeze the trigger mechanism? Like they did - keep it from detonating for a few seconds after I get off so I can take cover under one of those blast sheets in the tub?" He indicated the old-fashioned cast-iron tub to his left with a nod of his head.

The experts looked worryingly skeptical on the sanity of putting his life in the hands of Hollywood screenwriters, though after some debate on the logistics, they ended up agreeing that it did have at least a slim chance of actually working (emphasis on _slim_) and reluctantly got to work, for sheer lack of time and better options.

With Gibbs and Ziva occupied with the proceedings, McGee stood silently, anxiously beside Tony, saying nothing. And suddenly Tony remembered very clearly where his thoughts had been almost five hours ago.

"I think I hate you a little right now, McGee."

McGee started, and blinked at him in shock, mouth slightly agape.

"What?"

"The _Deep Six_ series, Agent Tommy, the intrepid Agent McGregor… ringing any bells?"

"Tony… now _really_ isn't the time for this."

"I disagree. If Tommy's about to blow-the-hell-up just because he has the misfortune of working with McGregor, some resentment is allowed. McGee, if I don't die here in my underwear in the next fifteen minutes, I reserve the right to pay you back for this, in whatever way I see fit."

Even severely under dressed and shaking like a leaf as he was, Tony's declaration was stonily sincere. McGee looked a little sick, but was spared having to summon the courage to answer by the announcement of the freezing having been completed, and the order to clear the room.

The only one aside from Gibbs that didn't budge was Ziva, who met his glare with one of her own.

"Tony has spoken of that bathroom scene before – and when he did, he mentioned that this Murtagh had been stuck in one place so long that his body could not move properly, and he required assistance to make it into the tub which was to protect him. You try to hide it, but your knee has been bothering you since we apprehended the bomber an hour ago, and you are having difficulty supporting even your own weight. _I_ am staying to help Tony."

It was neither a request, nor a statement open for rebuttal, and so, eyes narrowing, Gibbs gave her a nod, draped the spare blast-sheet just over the edge of the tub so that it could be pulled to cover them, and then left with a final look at Tony, who had watched the exchange in shock. When Ziva came before him, the shock remained.

"You remembered a movie reference?"

She only rolled her eyes and swung one leg into the tub, foot planted firmly on its bottom, while the rest of her body faced him, her arms outstretched and ready to grasp his arms which still shook with cold and exhaustion as he held them out towards her. Tony grinned faintly.

"On three?"

Missing that additional reference Ziva gave a terse nod, and they began a count in low voices.

"One… two… _three_."

Ziva grabbed and pulled and threw herself backward into the tub with all her strength.

The timer was at nine minutes, three seconds when the pressure switch tripped, and at nine minutes exactly when the bomb was triggered and detonated.

* * *

A week after a less than thrilling ambulance ride and hospital visit for two members of the team, Tony was able to get back to work with light duties and a shower of hugs and kisses from the resident Goth. Two weeks after Tony's return, McGee found his feet glued to the floor, his thighs and back glued to his chair, and his hands glued to his keyboard, which had been glued to his desk… an intricate trap which had been set by Tony to catch him upon his return to the bullpen not minutes after Gibbs had (very deliberately) told everyone else to call it an early night when McGee had left to make a trip to the head.

And three weeks after Ducky had taken pity on poor Timothy and had returned to the bullpen at midnight with glue dissolvent, bandages, scissors, and a change of clothes, Tony snuck a look at the suspiciously unhidden finished and printed manuscript for the latest _Deep Six_ novel, stashed in a drawer of McGee's desk.

In the immortalized words of Thom E. Gemcity, Agent Tommy was the final victim targeted by the Clockwork Bomber before an arrest was made, abducted by the madman from his apartment…

…as he was finishing his shower?

Tommy was, according to the harrowing final scene, naked as the day he was born when Agent Lisa pulled him into the tub on top of her and pulled the blast sheet over them just in time to save them from the concussion and flames of the explosion. The passionate kiss that was supposed to have followed while in the confines of the tub was purportedly the most intense of the lovers' lives and relationship.

Son of a bitch.


End file.
